Until We Get Our Happy Ending
by PointlessKnife
Summary: Father knew he was going to lose in those final moments on the Promised Day. He had the power of a God at his fingertips and he decided to use it. He escaped back to a time where he could change his plans and win. What he didn't count on was dragging back several people, all of them intent on fighting him at every step. (Rewrite of Countdown)
1. Chapter 1

Father was under no illusions that he'd be victorious.

Just because his hope had sustained him for all of those years, just because his ambition, his _hunger_ for power had kept him going for centuries, nothing would deprive him of the logic upon which he had structured his plans in the first place.

He knew he was failing.

He didn't need to feel the power, boundless, limitless- so, so _incredible-_ writhe and sear at his very being to know that his control over it was slipping.

Everything was slipping away. Slipping through his grasp at the very last moment, trickling away into nothing in the seconds that should have heralded in an enternity. He was a simple creature, born from alchemy, born from blood, and he wanted to be _more._

And he was more, now. He was so powerful, so bright, everything he'd always wanted, only for it to _burn_.

Burn, and melt into a misshappen mess of agony that was going to let him fall.

He felt the truth with each frantic heartbeat, in each blow from the mere _human_ who stood against him. All the others were collapsed, staring with eyes bright with greif, pain and _hope,_ all pathetic, all things he'd left behind.

And alone, the Fullmetal Alchemist stood against him. One arm laced with scars with stories of pain and perseverence, one pale and weak, speaking of victory and sacrifice. And alone, the Fullmetal Alchemist was winning, the air was ringing with the cries of his allies. And alone, the Fullmetal Alchemist cried for his brother and the fallen and the future.

It was like Father had already lost.

But losing was a process and the battle was still being fought. Oh, he already knew full well that the odds of this particular battle would never shift in hs favour again. But everything ammounted to a war, not a single battle.

This particular war had been stretched out over centuries, every moment, every battle, every action carved into history. He'd always return and he'd always win, in the end, in the long run.

That was why his symbol was the ouroboros. Eternity and rebirth, overcoming the circle of creation and destruction. A dragon eating its own tail, starting at the beginning when it reached the ending.

And that was the solution. Restart the cycle, find a better ending. Let the dragon eat it's tail, let it be born again.

Because time was merely a plaything with the kind of power, bubbling and raging beneath his skin. Even with his slipping grasp, it was enough, it was more than enough.

He was a God, and Gods could do the impossible.

It was as simple as that. With a smirk and one last tug at the boiling, agonising, raw power, everything ended.

The dragon ate its tail.

And everything started again.

* * *

Standing in the shadow of the Gate, stranded in infinity, It _howls_ in rage.

The cycle of everything was disrupted. It was being dragged backwards, it was being distorted. It was unatural and ugly and _wrong._

For the first time, the Truth's grin slipped, and It's face twisted into a snarl.

Behind It, the Gate shuddered, shadowy hands reached through the tiniest of gaps, clawing at nothing. They had nothing to reach for, but everything to long for.

The doors opened and closed, and each slam echoed across the infinite emptiness.

* * *

Ed knew something was wrong before he even opened his eyes. His leg throbbed with phantom pain, a dull agony. Which was wrong. Because his leg was metal and cold and unfeeling.

His leg didn't feel things. His leg didn't hurt. His leg was built from metal and pain and consequences.

His metal leg was hurting, but his arms felt fine, even though one of them was littered with shards of metal and the other was pale and shriveled. This wasn't right. But nothing would be right again, would it?

Because Al was gone, gone to the gate, the armour had no light in its eyes and it had all ended with a simple clap. Al was gone and Ed still hadn't figured out how to bring him back. He had been close to an answer, so tantilisingly close, but not enough. Never enough.

He hadn't had the time, and it killed him to know that somewhere, Al would be waiting. Waiting alone with the Truth and the Gates and the weight of all their mistakes.

It was the thought of Al, with his empty, hulking armour, Al with his mane of matted hair, pale- _whole -_ body and patient golden eyes, that forced Ed to open his eyes.

The sight that greeted him was something out of a nightmare. His childhood home loomed all around him. The walls had once seemed cozy and reassuring and had built the foundation of the belief he was safe (it'd burned to ash long ago. Safety and comfort went out the window the second he decided to place his hands on that circle and reached for more than he could fully grasp) but now they trapped him.

Ed knew this had to be a nightmare. It was simple. He'd left. It had burned. He'd travelled and his location had changed so often that _home_ had become a person- a suit of armour, to be exact- then a group of people, Mustang, the military, the chimeras, Greed. But Al always had been and always would be the defining factor of _safety_ and _okay._

So Ed ran. He stumbled- his limbs were too short and too whole to be real- through the hallways, without even waiting for the _thing_ to come and chase him, with staggering steps and ghastly wails and bright, accusing eyes. It didn't appear, but he still ran.

Everything was wrong. He wasn't safe and this wasn't real.

He stumbled into the basement, following the path laid out by his nightmares, half expecting the _thing_ to be waiting, or maybe for a circle to errupt into a brilliant arc of light. Maybe even Nina would be there, waiting to play.

Instead, it was cool and silent, the air was musty like nobody had been down here for a long time. Shapes loomed in the corners, lining the walls like silent guardians. He staggered over to one of the towering figures, and there it was.

Al's armour stared straight past him, covered in a thin layer of dust, like it'd never moved at all. There was no light in its eyes. Because Al was gone, dead and silent and still waiting. And there never would be a light there again, because Ed had failed, his promise laid shattered around him and he knew that he wouldn't be able to walk forwards anymore.

He curled up at the armour's feet like the cold didn't remind him of the mine, with the silence and the snow and the memory of complete agony, and fell asleep hoping to dream that Al was waiting and there was somehow a chance of a happy ending after all.

* * *

Ed blinked awake hours later to someone shaking his too-small shoulder. He turned to see Hohenheim's concerned face towering over him. He barely managed to flinch away, and even his cry of 'bastard' was half-hearted.

Hohenheim's concern morphed into relief, and then into a frown. "Language." He scolded gently.

Ed scowled, preparing to unleash every single one of the words Mustang and his men had taught him.

Hohenheim must have recognised whatever expression was on Ed's face, because he sighed. "Edward, listen to me." He said seriously, causing Ed to focus. That tone had meant that the Promised Day was approaching, that there wasn't any time for messing around, because there was a battle on the horizon, and the outcome would change everything.

"What's the last thing you remember? Before waking up?" Hohenheim asked urgently.

Ed paused, and focused.

Fighting Father and winning. A smirk. A surge of raw, incredible power. White. A frown.

A door slamming. Then waking up, and fear. But not falling asleep. He'd never lost consciousness.

Which meant... Which meant that this may not be an awfully ill-timed and cruel dream, and this could be real.

His leg gave a throb of pain in agreement. But his leg couldn't hurt because it was metal, and his hands... His hands were nearly identiacal- scarless and far, far too small.

"What did he do?" Ed asked hoarsely, staring up at Hohenheim's unreadable, ageless face.

"I think he ran away. He knew he was losing, so he used his power to go back to the past." Hohenheim announced gravely.

"But that's-" Ed's mind was still reeling.

"Nothing is impossible." Hohenheim sighed, and for a moment, Ed thought of Greed: a sharp grin and sharper words.

"Not with the power of God." Ed agreed grimly. Everything was making an awful lot of sense, and he didn't like it.

"How did we end up in the past then?" There was one loophole, one flaw and one chance for this not to be real.

Something must have shown on his face, because Hohenheim just looked unbearably sad. "I think it has something to do with the fact that we were his sacrifices. It was an odd ritual at best, and old, dangerous alchemy."

Ed remembered. He remembered it hurting, he remembered how _wrong_ it felt. But then he remembered that there were _five_ sacrifices. "Then Al?" He asked hopefully.

Some time ago, he would have _hated_ looking to Hohenheim for answers. Because Hohenheim had left, and then everything fell apart. It had been easy to blame Hohenheim, because he left and so he didn't care. But then he came back. He came back and he fought for them and then he saved them.

So yeah, Hohenheim couldn't be all bad. He'd worked to save them all from Father. He'd worked so he could return to his family, and he'd come back. He'd come back and he'd still tried to be a father to them. (Ed had to admire that stubborness, however grudgingly.)

In the interest of the saving the world, Ed had been forced to listen to Hohenheim. And despite having little to no reason to tell them anything, aside from being _family_ (ties that Ed had tried his hardest to sever), he'd never lied to them or led them wrong.

Because of that, when Hohenheim slowly shook his head, the anger Ed had expected didn't come. Instead, there was a heavy onslaught of greif and weary acceptance. He'd seen the light fade from the armour's eye sockets, he'd heard Al's final whisper fade into silence.

Once Icarus crashed, he didn't fly again.

Instead, the surge of hope that had accompanied the idea of another chance- more time- fizzled out slowly, because in the end, he hadn't saved his brother or kept his promise.

* * *

Seeing Alphonse alive and human and innocent was a slap to the face. They must have been thrown back by years and years, because Al was barely able to walk, or even talk.

For a moment, Ed felt a staggering sense of loss all over again. _His_ brother, who'd walked beside him in a looming suit of armour, _his_ Alphonse, who'd adopted stray cats and tried to sacrifice himself to save him, was _gone_.

But instead, this Al had never known pain. He'd never been pulled apart by the frenzied- desperate- hands of the gate. He'd never stared in a mirror and wondered if his entire life was a lie. He'd never had to even think about dying to save his brother, with nothing but blind trust and his own face waiting for him in an empty, silent place to comfort him.

This Al, Ed knew he'd protect. His brother would remain whole and alive and hopeful for his entire life, and he'd live long past the Promised Day.

The light would never fade from his eyes.

Seeing his mother again was just as painful. Because she'd been wrenched away too soon, and her image had been distorted and tainted and torn by what he'd done. For the first few days, he expected Al to disappear and his mother's face to twist into a withered, ghastly nightmare.

He imagined that it'd be worse for Hohenheim. Despite wanting to be furious, he could only imagine the torture that his father was facing: knowing that he'd been this happy before, and that he'd left it all behind. Knowing that the love of his life had wasted away waiting for him, until all that was left was a burnt skeleton of a house and happy memories, and the echo of her last words, that he'd never hear in her voice, because he had been cursed with forever and instead had run out of time when it'd mattered the most.

But they were lucky. Mostly because Hohenheim often holed himself in his study for days at a time, so he had time to come to terms with things in private. Ed wasn't so lucky, but he was young enough that randomly being quiet and clingy was normal enough for him.

Both Ed and Hohenheim knew there was a future looming over them. Both of them knew how the story would - _had_ ended. But both of them knew the pain of losing family, and if by some miraculous mistake, they had been granted a second chance, then they weren't going to let it slip by.

So if Trisha noticed that Hohenheim left his study more and more every day, would sit with his sons and make sure he spent time with her, and if she noticed that her eldest son would cling to her, and check that his younger brother was okay at every single opportunity, she didn't say anything.


	2. Chapter 2

Ed had barely grown used to his new life. He could just about look at his mother without seeing the shrivelled face of a monster, just about look at Winry without feeling the ghost of the barely-there weight of earings in his pocket, and he still couldn't (and probably never would) look at Al without seeing bright eyes dimming into nothing.

But he coped well enough. More often than not, his nightmares were quiet, and Hohenheim's study always had a light burning in the lonely hours of the early morning. It was almost peaceful, Hohenheim hunched over a worn desk, and Ed curled up in a blanket, sitting quietly in a corner with a book.

Hohenheim rarely left. Only the occasional short trip to pick up more books from a nearby town. He never said what they were, and no one ever asked.

(In a way, maybe they could all tell that the peace was fragile in some way, because it was so clearly very precious to Hohenheim.)

Ed had started going to the small school in the village. It was tiny, underfunded and understaffed. Needless to say, he hated every single second of it.

Worst of all was seeing Winry again. Trisha had introduced them the day before they'd both head off to school. It had been a nice day, so Trisha and Sarah Rockbell had decided to drag them to a field of brightly coloured flowers.

It was almost funny, that he couldn't remember the first time he'd met Winry. She'd just always been there. Always and always, from the beginning until the end, when she'd watched him leave for the final battle. He'd promised to come back. He'd promised to return her earings. He'd promised never to make her cry.

He knew he'd never be able to keep the first two promises, but maybe he'd have a chance with the last one. He'd be better this time. He'd be the reason she smiled instead of cried.

But she was so small, and so young as she hid behind her mother in a field of blooming flowers and surrounded by sunlight.

Her hair was still short. He wasn't sure why, but it felt like a slap to the face. She'd always been proud of her hair, maybe not as much as her automail, but it was certainly something he could remember clearly. A smug smile and a high ponytail swinging with every step, the underlying smell of oil. That was his Winry.

Even clearer than the thought of cheerful, confident Winry, was the memory of her young face stained with tears as she waited for her parents to come home and later, the memory of her older face robbed of it's usual smile, but marred with grief and a gun trembling in her grip.

So with that, Ed decided that he was going to make sure Winry never needed to cry again. Because if anyone deserved a happy ending, it was her and Al. The people who'd picked up Icarus and taught him how to walk instead of fly.

He made sure to be friendly. Confident, happy, open. (He hadn't told her enough last time. He had tried to keep her safe, and in the end, it only hurt her more.) Clearly something worked, because they ended up sitting in the field, and made flower crowns out the bright colours while their parents talked in quiet voices.

It was peaceful. Just having time to relax in a field that wouldn't become torn up or bloodied by a battle. It was odd to have to _make_ something, when for so long he had just needed to clap, and he was clumsy and slow. Winry, though, had always been good at building things, so she had a small pile of flower crowns while he had a mess of petals and delicate stems.

"I'm awful." He muttered sourly, glaring at the unyielding stems. "You'll have to teach me."

Winry's resulting beam was worth it.

And Winry had always been kind, had always been patient. That hadn't- and likely never would have, regardless of what happened- changed. She had always been good at building things, she'd never needed alchemy. All she'd needed was her own hands and something to work with.

"I'm proud of you," His mother said later as they walked away, hand in hand. "look at you, growing up and making friends!"

The flower crown was almost weightless, and it sometimes slipped down to cover his eyes, but it had made him completely forget about the phantom weight of earings he'd never return, and it made him think that _his_ Winry wasn't too far away after all.

She'd always enjoyed making things after all.

Always and always.

* * *

Izumi Curtis took pride in her strength. Or at least, she had once.

Once, she had proved her worth by fighting tooth, claw and nail for answers. Once, she had been weak, so she'd taught herself how to fight. Once, she'd be able to look back at everything she'd suffered and know that she was stronger for it.

She'd become stronger, because she'd managed to face her demons and had, through time and tears and terror, she had defeated them. She'd managed to put it all behind her, and move forwards without it plauging her.

But her strength had abandoned her this time.

It appeared that she'd gone from one hell straight into another.

The pain wasn't even the worst of it. But her insides felt like they were on fire. Every second was met with a fresh burst of agony. With every breath, blood bubbled in her throat and she would double over with a hacking cough.

She faded in and out of consciousness, with the pain making it hard to think. Darkness wasn't quite a relief, because it'd merely blossom into memories.

 _"Sensei, was the life you transmuted really your child?"_

She'd see the circle again, she'd see the white emptiness and the Gate, she'd see the smile and hear the slam of the doors. And at the very end, she'd see her students, the boys she'd tried to guide, try to make _better_ than her, clap their hands and know they'd made the same mistakes.

But waking was just as bad. Because nothing made sense. When she clawed her way to consciousness, all her blurry vision could see was the hunched over form of her husband sitting at her bedside with sad, sad eyes.

When she eventually managed to maintain awareness for the first time of what felt like weeks of torture, her blood turned to ice when she realised how _young_ her husband looked.

"Izumi," He let out a relieved sigh. "I thought I'd lost you too."

She just groaned wordlessly as she felt another coughing fit coming. The pot shoved in front of her to catch the worst of the blood was far more clumsy than usual, almost like he'd forgotten the years he'd spent helping her with her illness.

"Why did you do it?" The words were sudden, blurted out and shattering the eerie silence following her coughing fit.

Izumi _froze_. She knew those words. She knew them and she'd never forget them. She'd heard them a thousand times in her nightmares. Her husbands, quiet, pained question would echo through the endless white space, the wrong, withered face of what she'd transmuted would wail it.

And then her strength abandoned her, and she ended up sobbing. Because there were only so many nightmares she could take at a time.

In her memories, she'd answered him, hoarsely and ashamed. She''d failed. She'd failed, what kind of mother was she? Except she wasn't a mother, and never would be a mother, because of her mistake and the price it had cost.

In her memories, Sig had been angry and sad and grieving, because he'd lost a child and had nearly lost his wife. Everything had nearly slipped through his fingers, and he'd panicked and tried to hold on, because he felt powerless and he'd been so, so scared. So in her memories, he'd yelled, and she'd croaked back defiantly. They'd both said things they'd regretted for years afterwards.

They'd sorted it out. They'd talked , weeks bled into months and they'd talked until healing looked just a little more possible.

The memory of their argument had become smaller and less painful in the bigger picture. It was like a grain of sand in an hourglass. It'd been lost amongst a thousand other memories, and it'd passed. It'd settled at the bottom, and had been buried in gold to become a strong foundation for the path forwards.

But now, the hourglass had been flipped. Everything was rushing back and she was drowning in the remains of her strong foundations, she'd been reduced to nothing in the shards of what had once made her strong.

Everything was raw and rough and it _hurt._ It was like her heart was breaking again, like her insides had been ripped out again, like wounds that had scabbed and scarred were torn open and bleeding.

So in her memories, she'd answered in little more than a whisper. Like the Truth had robbed her of her voice instead of her hope and her arrogance and her insides.

But this time, she could only sob. Because she wondered if she'd died on that day, fighting the being that had snatched the power of a God from the Gate that gave answers in return for a differnt kind of everything. She wondered if she'd died and this was the price she'd have to pay.

But it couldn't be complete hell, because suddenly she was safe, wrapped in a gentle hug from her husband, the man who could and would and had walked through everything life had thrown at her by her side.

"It'll be okay, Izumi." He promised gruffly. "We'll get through this together, you'll see."

And she was broken. But she'd been broken before, and she'd worked around it before. It was a cycle of pain and trial and effort, but she knew she could get there eventually.

She knew she could walk down it, but it didn't make the path any less daunting. If, no, _once_ the pain subsided, she'd figure out what was going on and how to deal with it.

But for now, it was enough to sob in her husband's arms, mourning for the children she'd failed so utterly.

* * *

Greed had never remembered hating so much.

He hated that he realised what his 'Father' had done so quickly. He hated that he'd been born from something so pathetic. He _despised_ the connection that was still so very clearly there.

He had hated before, of course. But it was always the kind of hatred that simmered into rage and lurked at the back of his mind and became easier to deal with.

He hated that he'd been made with an emptiness he could never even hope to fill, he hated his Father for making him believe that he was better,because it just hurt more when he realised that it was all a lie and he'd never belong and he'd never happy no matter how much he took and how much he had.

But that hatred had settled into something cold and sharp. Something that would never go away, but it was something he could use. A double-edged sword. He could cause as much pain as he felt, perhaps.

He hated his Father, and he always would. Becaue he'd been created with an ouroboros etched into his skin. He'd worn the symbol of immortality, of overcoming the cycle like a brand. Time had taught him painful lesson after painful lesson. Immortality hadn't been kind, the years he'd lived through hadn't been a blessing, despite what he'd believed for so long.

And in the end, the truth was simple: no matter how many times the dragon ate its own tail, it'd never be full.

The ouroboros hadn't looked quite the same after that.

But for all that he tried, he couldn't hate the Xingese prince who'd taught him the very lessons that had made his life a living hell.

Sure, the brat's little speech had been interrupted by his Father's dramatic escape. But he'd had time to think about it. He'd have a lot of time to think about it, given where he was.

Time. That was funny. Like time had ever been an issue for him.

No, the problem had always been emptiness. He'd always, always wanted more than he had. Nothing was enough. The _want_ for something better, something bigger, something _more_ had bubbled in his blood since the day he'd first existed.

And all he'd needed was answers. Then he'd know just how to fill up the emptiness and maybe everything would be okay.

The prince had been trying to tell him something.

Maybe it was the answer he'd been looking for all along. Maybe it was more wisdom, like the ideas that had slowly changed him from the monster that had obeyed his Father without question. Maybe it was the same sort of wisdom that had made him realise that he didn't have any answers after all, and that his Father truly was pathetic.

He hoped that whatever the prince had tried to tell him was important. The kind of important that would sever the last ties between him and his Father. Because there _was_ still a connection. They were both filled with souls instead of blood, they both lived through the ouroboros. He could still tell what his Father wanted, and what he'd do to get it, because they were still so similar.

So if the answers had been so close, he'd be sure to grasp them. Because he wanted to be someone different. Someone with all the pieces he was currently missing. And if the answer to everything really was so close, he'd figure it out for himself.

He had the time, after all.


End file.
